Tuesday, May 13, 2003

My husband almost divorced me last night, and it was all because of Sauce Tartare.  That is sort of a joke, but not really.  It was going to be so easy.  On the menu was roast beef sandwiches with the above-mentioned Sauce Tartare, Bouchees Parmentier au Fromage (Potato Cheese Sticks) and salad.  I got home ready to whip the stuff up and move on to more important stuff, like playing Civilization and getting “Duck Soup” over with. The difference between Sauce Tartare and regular mayonnaise is that the base is not raw egg yolks, but hard boiled ones.  Hard boil three eggs.  Separate out the yolks, reserving the whites.  Mush them up with mustard and salt until they make a smooth paste.  Beat in a cup of oil, in a thin stream.  Now, Julia says, “This sauce cannot be made in an electric blender; it becomes so stiff the machine blogs.”  Well, fine, I’d do it by hand then.  I got my big mongo wire whip and two cups of a mixture of olive and peanut oil, and started beating.  I poured the oil in very slowly, stopping occasionally while continuing to beat, to make sure the oil got absorbed.  Only, after I’d poured in half a cup or so, it was clear that for all my care, it wasn’t getting absorbed.  Fuck.  Julia says:             You will never have trouble with freshly made mayonnaise if you have             beaten the egg yolks thoroughly in a warmed bowl before adding the oil,             if the oil has been added in droplets until the sauce has commenced to             thicken, and if you have not exceeded the maximum proportions of ¾ cup             of oil per egg yolk… This is all because I didn’t heat the bowl?  Because everything else I did.  Well, I try Julia’s suggestions for fixing it.  I warm a bowl (and set it over a pan of simmering water, my own idea), and beat a bit of mustard with a big of the failed Sauce Tartare.  I’m supposed to beat until the mustard and the sauce until they “cream and thicken together.” This never happens. This always works, Julia says. Bitch. So this is when I begin screaming a bit.  As I’m screaming, I know I’m overreacting, but scream I do anyway.  As I’m screaming, I’m pouring the failed sauce into the blender.  Fuck it.  What could happen?  Well, not much, as it turns out.  I blend it and blend it, and it just remains this thin, sad sauce that separates again as soon as I stop blending. This is when I begin throwing things. Now the thing is, I’m doing all this even though I know there’s been a bombing in Riyadh.  I know that Eric has an aunt in Saudi Arabia, and I know that the news is annoyingly saying nothing about the bombings, and I know that Eric’s family, to who he’s been making multiple calls are annoyingly not picking up the phone.  I know all this, and yet I throw a toddler-style tantrum.  And yet I scream and cry as if I have no hope left in life, as if Sauce Tartare is proof positive of the absolute failure of my life. Eric puts up with this like the saint he is, for a good long time.  Then he explodes. IT’S ONLY MAYONNAISE!!!!!!! He’s right of course, but I feel that it would kill me to say so. So I throw away the failed mayonnaise, and make Bouchees Parmentier au Fromage in a deep chill. I boil three small potatoes and put them through a ricer.  The ricer breaks, but I do not throw a fit. I stir the mushed potatoes in a hot pan to absorb the water.  I beat in a cup of flour, a stick of softened butter in bits, an egg, a cup of grated cheese, white pepper, cayenne and salt.  I scoop the stuff up into a pastry bag, and start squeezing out lines onto a cookie sheet. The pastry bag splits down the middle, but I don’t scream.  I spoon the rest of the stuff onto the cookie sheet.  I stick them in the oven.  I only cry a little. I make up the salad, which is actually very pretty, with red onions and orange peppers.  I make up sandwiches with the pretty sourdough bread E. brought us on Sunday, roast beef, lettuce, tomatoes, and the delicious ancho chile jalapeno mustard April sent in her care package.  When the potato sticks are done – it only takes ten minutes – I scoop them onto plates, French fry-style. Eric’s mother has a gift.  He’s been trying to reach her all night, with no success; she calls literally as he’s taking his first bite of dinner.  But I do not bitch; I do not even get irritated. Turns out Eric’s aunt doesn’t live Riyadh.  We don’t think.  Everything’s fine with us.  We hope. The potato cheese sticks were really good, anyway.   7:40:43 AM    comment []